


Interlude I: Cause and Effect

by popsicletheduck



Series: Some Stars are Reborn by Collision [2]
Category: Star Trek
Genre: Bonding, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Panic Attacks, Recovery from Injuries, References to Alcohol, Religion, engineers gonna be engineers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 13:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsicletheduck/pseuds/popsicletheduck
Summary: Some short scenes and introspection, set afterForces of Time and Space.Where there is light, a shadow appears,The cause and effect when life interferes.The same rule applies to goodness and grief,For in our great sorrow, we learn what joy means.- "Sorrow", by Sleeping at Last





	1. The Simple Pleasure of Not Moving

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I know this update took ages and also is tiny. I never promised I would be fast.  
But yes, this is the structure for the overarching story. One lengthy arc, telling one complete story, followed by a much shorter interlude, with small scenes or other writing tidbits. A bit of a break, both for me writing and for y'all reading, since I can promise the next arc is gonna be painful. I'm hoping to have it out relatively soon? But also I make no promises.

Bedrest, Rowan had already decided, is very terrible. It’s made slightly less terrible by the fact that Ash now joins them whenever she isn’t on duty. Sometimes they talk about whatever it is they could find to talk about: the lighter stories from their times in Starfleet, a book series that had only been halfway finished when Ash left for Academy, one of them rambling about their interests while the other supplies polite comments. But a lot of the time they both sit, doing their own thing, enjoying each other’s company without a word. 

Companionable silence. Rowan is finding that they missed it without realizing.

It’s during one of these sorts of times that they finally have their realization.

They’re playing cards by themself, a game loosely based on solitaire, propped up against the pillows with a tray across their lap. There’s some soft old Earth pop playing and absentmindedly they’re singing along, the song familiar enough that they can do so without really thinking. Ash has dragged her usual chair from the sitting area over, her feet propped up on the edge of the bed, reading off a PADD. Not work, Rowan assumes, because her shift is over, and working now would be terribly hypocritical. The lights are a comfortable kind of warm, the blanket across their legs is the right kind of weighty, the ship hums underneath it all, at a steady warp. Bedrest might be very terrible, but this. This isn’t so bad.

But when they glance over, stuck on their next move (putting down the four of spades would lead towards the endgame but also decrease the odds for the queen of diamonds, who Rowan had been rooting for), they notice a faint crease in Ash’s brow. Apparently she wasn’t sharing their quiet contentment.

“What’s up?” Rowan asks.

Ash’s eyes come up to meet theirs, the crease deepening. “What?”

“You looked concerned.”

“Oh, I’m reading through the latest update to Starfleet safety protocols, and they changed the wording on Protocol 48C Subsection i and I can’t figure out why.”

For a moment Rowan just stares at her, searching for even the faintest trace of humor on her face. Certainly this was the dryest joke she’s ever tried to pull.

“Sure. What’s up?”

Ash flips the PADD around to face them. “I wasn’t kidding.”

There in the corner is the symbol of Starfleet, and in plain text  _ In the event of unknown foreign contaminants discovered on board,  _ followed by a lot of subsections in very small text.

“Ash. What the fuck.” It’s a question and yet somehow not a question at the same time. So she could tell them off for working even when they didn’t work at all, all day, but she could keep working after an eight hour shift?

She seems genuinely surprised by their reaction which is almost more shocking than the reveal itself. “What? It’s good to be prepared. And it’s relaxing.”

“We were just in an emergency, how can reading about other possible emergencies be relaxing?!” Just thinking about it Rowan could feel their heart rate spiking a little, or maybe that was from the yelling.

Ash shrugs, her gaze falling back to the PADD. “I don’t know, maybe it’s because then I feel prepared for when things inevitably go wrong and that’s relaxing.”

That Rowan has to give a bit of grudging acknowledgement. “Fair, I suppose, but that’s still pretty much work. And if I’m not allowed to work then you’re not allowed to either. There’s gotta be something else you can do to relax.”

The silence stretches on as Ash contemplates that question for much, much longer than Rowan expected until they finally give up.

“Alright, that’s it, get your ass over here I’m teaching you how to play solitaire because apparently you don’t know how to actually relax.”

They swipe up their own game they were halfway through, the four of spades abandoned back to the deck, shuffling as they start to explain. “So, step one, shuffle everything. Step two, we need seven piles with the leftmost card face up, repeating the process until each stack ends in a face up card.”

The slide and crack of the cards as they lay them out is soothing. They’ve done this a thousand times, in a hundred different places, but the cards don’t change.

“This doesn’t look like what you were doing before,” Ash remarks, studying the layout.

“That’s because I was playing a bastard game that’s half Earth solitaire and half Andorian ithoshet that Jhy and I invented at Academy.” Ithotaire had been the creation of a late night, a pack of cards, stress, and more than a few alcoholic beverages. It’s Rowan’s preferred single player card game, but they also know from experience that explaining it properly takes about two hours and also probably alcohol. It had been created by drunk people, it isn’t something a sober mind could easily grasp. Ash apparently still hadn’t learned to relax and also no booze on board a ship, so they’re starting with the basics. 

“The rest of the cards are your deck that you draw from one at a time,” they continue explaining once the setup is done. “The purpose of the game is to get all the cards organized by suit and in order from king to ace but you can only play cards on a card one higher than it and of the opposite color, except if it’s an ace and then you can start one of the piles, and in the piles you can put cards that are one higher and of the same suit.”

Ash is quiet for a moment or two, taking it in, before she asks, “But what’s the point?”

“I told you, it’s to organize-”

“No, but like, what’s the  _ point _ ?”

“Strategy, I guess? I don’t know, it’s something to do that you need to think about but you don’t really have to think that hard about, y’know?”

“What keeps you from cheating?”

“Your internal sense of honor and the entire purpose of the game? Why would you even bother cheating against yourself?”

There’s another long silence, and then slowly Ash picks up a card from the deck, swivels the tray around to face her, and starts playing. Rowan smiles and grabs the PADD from their nightstand to return to the novel they’ve been working through since they suddenly have so much free time on their hands.

They’re already caught up in the slowly fracturing tension between the thrown together team of daemon hunters when Ash gives a frustrated huff, shoving away from the bed.

“What’s the point of playing a game of cards against no one that you can still  _ lose _ ?” she complains.

Rowans considers this for a moment. Considers the spray of cards across the tray, a mess of red and black and white, nearly organized, nearly there. Nearly there but not quite.

“Get me two Andorian ales from the replicator, please.”

“Should you really-”

“It’s just synthehol, I can’t imagine it’ll do anything bad. But if I’m gonna explain ithotaire to you I at the very least need fake alcohol, even if I can’t get drunk.”


	2. Life, Death, and Other Unknowns

Once again, Rowan had gotten distracted in the morning, this time working on an alteration to their model of the Pull that had come to them just as they were falling asleep, and once again they are rushing through their morning routine. 

They yank off their pajamas, tossing them roughly in the direction of their bed before grabbing their undershirt to tug on and-

Rowan pauses, not because there was an uncomfortable twinge of protestation from their stomach at the movement but because there wasn’t. They’ve been back on duty for three days now after their month spent doing practically nothing, but somehow they hadn’t even thought-

Their fingers move to skim the smooth expanse of their stomach. There’s no scar, no mark, no sign at all, but-

It’s not a flashback, they know the definition of a flashback and they’re not back there on Atania-5, they’re not reliving it, but they remember. They remember the spike, they remember looking down and seeing it jutting from them, through them, they remember the sticky warmth of their own blood against their hands and there was so much of it, blood that just kept coming, they remember the tightness in their chest and-

It hits them like a slap across the face, so much so that Rowan actually staggers back a half step in their room. They died. Th’avorak told them, they died on the table. Their heart stopped beating. If medical technology wasn’t what it is, or if the transporters hadn’t gotten up-

They should be dead.

Somewhere in the back of their head they had already known this, they’d just never stopped to think about it. But they’re thinking about it now and they can’t stop thinking about it as they pull zippers and tie laces with hands that shake. It echoes back and forth and back and forth, laser light bounced infinitely around a hall of mirrors.

They should be dead. They should be dead. They should be dead.

The replicator provides breakfast and Rowan shoves it in their mouth. It tastes like ash and glue and they have to force themself to swallow. The world starts to slip towards hazy and unreal, their body not quite theirs to control, as if they did die and all that’s left is their ghost, drifting pointlessly through old routines.

They should be dead. They should be dead. They should be dead.

It’s not that they want to be dead. They’re very much glad to still be alive. But the fact that the reason their heart still continues to beat came down to little more than a strain of luck they didn’t even know they had hollows them out in a way they can’t quite explain. Rowan has known for a while that life is fragile and fleeting and so, so small, but this is a new and more intimate kind of knowledge, pressing up against their skin with every continued breath.

They expect the lab to be empty like it is most mornings, a chance to lose themself in work and push past their rattling thoughts. But when the door slides open Th’avorak is there, poking at some plant specimen and Rowan wants to run away at the same moment that they want to run to them. They do neither, walking in and pulling up recent data on pulsar degradation for analysis.

“Good morning, lieutenant.” 

“Good morning, ser.” Maybe it comes out right, maybe it doesn’t, Rowan can’t tell. Everything rings strange and distant to their ears.

And then there’s a hand on their shoulder that gives them their answer, half guiding, half dragging them over to a chair.

“Sit,” Th’avorak says, firm but not angry.

Rowan sits.

“Breathe.”

That takes a little longer, to gather the scattered inhales and exhales into something useable. But Rowan manages eventually, a measure of calm in the mastery.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Th’avorak is crouched down in front of Rowan so they’re at eye level, steady and unwavering.

Rowan doesn’t decide to say anything until the words are already tumbling out of their mouth, the same four words that have been rattling in their skull. 

“I should be dead.”

Th’avorak sighs, long and slow, not frustration but something heavier, something that tugs their gaze somewhere distant and pulls their shoulders to sag a bit.

“You know that I’m no believer in fate or destiny or any higher power. All I can tell you is that any ‘should’ doesn’t matter. What happened, happened, and it was terrible that you had to go through it, but you’re here now, which it what matters.”

“But if, if the transporters hadn’t-”

“But they did. I know that it’s scary. Believe me, when I lost my leg I had plenty of time to think about everything that could have gone differently. But in the end it didn’t, and I’m here, and thinking about all the different paths my life could have taken doesn’t do me or anyone else any good.”

Rowan takes another shaky breath. It does help some to think about now, with work to be done safe in the lab, instead of then, with pounding blood and the smell of burnt consoles.

Th’avorak places a firm hand on their shoulder. “Sit here as long as you need. If you want to go the counselors, you’re relieved of duty for the day. If not, you can go back to work once you can breathe normally and your hands stop shaking.”

They go back to their plant. Rowan sits and breathes, pushing back the last of their momentary panic. They could have died, they did die, yes, but they’re not dead now. They’re not dead now and there’s work to do.

Their hands stop shaking. They go back to work.

Maybe they all should be dead, the whole ship. But they’re not, and while they’re not, there’s work to do.


	3. Breathing to the Beat of the Core

Lieutenant Commander Nakamura Ezu is many things. Born to a Bajoran ambassador mother and a human father, raised on Earth but steeped in Bajoran culture, she had long ago come to terms with the inherent complexity of sapient souls and the mingled beauty and contradictions that could be found within. She is an engineer and an amateur poet, an optimist with her feet on the ground while flying through space, a friend and a commanding officer, a workaholic that preached self care to her crew.

One of the things Nakamura Ezu is not, however, is a fool.

She knows there are people who think she is. She’s seen it on the faces of new crew members as they try to get the hang of her non intuitive storage system. Never openly, but she’s caught glances out of the corners of her eyes of confused and often fearful bafflement at the fact that she is head of engineering on new transfers.

It is just one way out of many ways that Ash Rosewood is something other than typical.

Ezu doesn’t expect anyone else in engineering to adopt her set of beliefs. It’s something personal, her own blend of her dad building shrines to the spirits that surround them and her mom’s prayers to the Prophets. Her quarters hold three small shrines of her own make, one to her ancestors, one to the Prophets, and one to the spirit of the  _ Bell Burnell. _ Her worship is generally private and personal, small prayers and offerings, or the earring that she wears. Main engineering is the one, rather large she would admit, exception. And while Ezu doesn’t expect anyone to adopt her beliefs, she does ask that others respect them.

Respect is integral to the life of a Starfleet officer, but she does know there are those who think she pushes it a bit too far. It’s never much bothered her, but she is aware of it.

She’s aware of it, like she’s aware of so much that goes on in engineering. Engineering is hers, and the engineers are hers. She will fight for them with every drop of strength she has. She has fought for them, even if sometimes she has to fight against them. They’re a strange and motley group, sometimes prickly, sometimes needy, sometimes both at once. They often work too hard and too long, jeopardizing their health for the health of the ship. She understands them, and she does her best to care for them just like she cares for the  _ Bell _ .

On a very logical level, Ezu is aware that the  _ Bell _ is not alive. The  _ Bell _ is circuits and metal and machinery, and she knows this because she is regularly in those circuits and metal and machinery, checking and fixing and repairing. But the  _ Bell’s _ soul is so large, so diverse and complicated, it’s hard not to think of her as a living, breathing thing. Sometimes Ezu will stand in silence next to the warp core, listening to its hum, and it feels like something sacred, something holy, the mechanized beat of a mechanical heart that has been entrusted to her care. She loves the  _ Bell _ as a parent loves a child, as a friend loves a friend, as a being loves a home.

Her ship and her crew. She would do anything for them, and that is why getting a new second was a bit terrifying.

Prell had been steadfast and calm, a needed compliment to her passion and emotion. They had stood with her through the worst, saved the ship with her, mourned with her for crew members taken too early. They had been there as the  _ Bell _ flew out of dock for the first time. They were family, nothing more and nothing less and sure that didn’t mean that the two of them always got along, but it meant Prell had always been there. Her second, cool in the face of stress.

Ezu didn’t begrudge them the promotion. Prell would do well on the  _ Aotūroa. _ But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been nervous about their replacement.

Ash Rosewood is very little like Prell.

The obvious differences are physical. Prell was tall, taller-than-Ryhleth tall, pushing-towards-seven-feet tall, with pitch black fur and bright yellow eyes. Rosewood is short, shorter than Ezu, and decidedly human. On several occasions in those first few days Ezu finds herself looking up and over Rosewood’s head, expecting someone much taller. But it was so much more than just the physical differences.

Every soul requires different things to thrive. Even non living objects are made with different purposes to fulfill. No soul can ever take the place of another. These are things that Ezu has known since childhood. So she had been expecting a period of adjustment as everyone settled into new places and new routines.

It didn’t happen.

Lieutenant Ash Rosewood slipped so seamlessly into life in main engineering it was if she had always been there. She was near masterful in her assessments of crew members right from the get go. Productivity and morale even increases as she carefully organizes work rosters so everyone gets what they wanted, even if they didn’t know it was what they wanted. She isn’t Prell, but sometimes it seems like she isn’t quite Rosewood, either.

It’s a strange feeling Ezu gets sometimes, watching her new second work. She’s had to stop herself a number of times from asking some very rude questions, but she’s found herself wondering at times, bizarrely, what Rosewood’s soul even is. Plenty of people could put on a nice face or shift themselves a little to fit their surroundings, but it almost felt like Rosewood shifted her soul, her whole being, just to talk to one ensign. Her soul was like water, no, that’s not right. Like putty, flexible and moldable, but with the appearance of solidity if you didn’t look too close. Strange and fascinating. Ezu wonders if she’s ever seen Ash Rosewood’s truth, or if this change is her truth. It certainly didn’t feel like a lie.

But as strange as Rosewood is, there is one way in which she and Ezu are intimately linked. She’s seen the fondness in her gaze looking around engineering. She’s found her working long after alpha shift has ended. She’s seen Rosewood standing in silence near the warp core, just listening.

She is reverent in the face of the holy. No matter who she is, no matter what her soul was, she couldn’t be that bad if her breath too was synced to the beat of the core.


End file.
